


Move Aside (and let the mango through)

by Nny



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drunk!Crowley, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22222912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: Prompt: Crowley gets overly affectionate when drunk.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 109
Collections: 2019 Good Omens Holiday Exchange





	Move Aside (and let the mango through)

There was another shout of laughter from the bar and Aziraphale stirred his drink with a paper straw that was slowly fragmenting under the pressure of his agitation. It was really no odds to him whether he managed to drink any more of it or not; it had been flavoured with some kind of mango liquer. A mango that had been flown at no doubt very great expense from a country on quite the other side of the globe, contributing to the ruinous effect that the humans were having on the environment lately. A mango that had most likely been picked by an underpaid and poorly treated worker who would see none of the profits from Aziraphale's quite extortionate drink. A mango that had then been subjected to various indignities, added to sugar, fermented into something sickeningly sweet and injurious to the senses, and had ruined a perfectly nice gin. 

Mangoes, Aziraphale thought darkly, were emblematic of everything that was wrong with the world today. 

Crowley - naturally - loved them. 

Aziraphale stabbed petulantly at the lone ice cube still floating in his drink and watched with some satisfaction as his straw finally gave up the ghost, disintegrating into the glass and rendering it quite undrinkable. It would have taken very little effort to miracle it into something rather tastier, and of a far better vintage, but it wasn't nearly so much fun when he didn't have someone to share it with. 

"That," slurred a voice from the bar, tone ribald and designed precisely to carry, "was what the harmonica was for!" 

There was another round of laughter, and Aziraphale gave in and stood, his chair scraping back across the flagged stone floor. It was a nice little place, this; The Star Inn, which had seemed rather appropriate for how late in December it was getting. It was one of the indeterminately old pubs that had once been a coaching inn, and he had been sitting in what they had used as a courtyard, roofed over now with a marquee that magnified the sound of the rain outside. It was chilly around the edges and uncomfortably warm just under the heaters, and Aziraphale's fingers stung a little when he flexed them before pulling on his clumsily knitted gloves. 

"Angel!" Crowley's voice was warm and smooth, like scales just out from under a heat lamp, and Aziraphale turned with a certain amount of resignation to see that he'd slunk his way over, his new friends watching from the bar. They'd left a space for him, right in the middle of the huddle of them, and Aziraphale found himself pursing his lips. 

"I think it's time I was off," he said, and pulled his coat off the back of his chair, the very well fitted cut of it making him curse that he'd pulled his gloves on first. 

"No!" Crowley said, reaching out to rest long fingers on his forearm, curling them against his sleeve. "No no no, Angel, it's just, night's just getting started!" 

"For you, perhaps," Aziraphale said, staring down at Crowley's fingers as though that would be enough to remove them from his arm. "I think I'm about due for some Granada Sherlock Holmes and a cup of herbal tea." 

"Don't you want to come meet m'new friends?" Crowley walked his fingers up Aziraphale's arm, curling his own arm around the angel's shoulders in a movement that was quite painfully natural, as though it was something they had ever rehearsed. "Th'very nice," he said, "there's at least three Claires." 

"I wasn't aware that was the criterion for a delightful soiree," Aziraphale said, and then - daring - reached up to touch Crowley's wrist, resting his fingers against the cool skin for a second before carefully lifting his arm away and spinning out from underneath it, like one of those dances made up of longing looks and tension-filled space. "Thank you all the same," he said. 

"Come drink more mango!" Someone yelled. Possibly it was a Claire. Aziraphale's eyebrow twitched and Crowley grinned at him, one of the beautiful ones that he'd not yet managed to get used to. 

"Nah," he called back. "'Ziraphale hates mangos." 

"I wouldn't say I hate them," Aziraphale said, wishing for a confusing moment that Crowley would remove his glasses. "I just cannot bring myself to approve." 

"All right," Crowley said, and wandered off to the bar again without even stopping for a goodbye, which stung with the familiarity of old hurts. Aziraphale carefully did up his coat, the buttons straining across the added bulk of his cardigan, and wound his tartan scarf around his neck before heading for the door. 

"Wait up." Crowley appeared next to him, and Aziraphale blinked to see him wrapped up - as wrapped up as he ever got, at least - in an artfully draped cashmere scard and an unbuttoned peacoat that swirled elegantly around his thighs. 

"Aren't you - ?" 

Crowley swayed into his side a little, the red glow of the heater winking off his glasses and giving him a quite rakish look. 

"Can't let y'go out by yourself," Crowley said, letting out a quite genteel little belch. "No idea what kind've people're out. Evil's abroad, an' all that." 

"At this time of year, most likely," Aziraphale said, and tugged open the door. 

They didn't need to share an umbrella, but that didn't seem to be stopping Crowley, who hooked his arm through Aziraphale's and gently sapped the heat he'd retained from the pub. He wasn't quite managing to walk in a straight line, going from tugging at Aziraphale's arm a little, his hand sliding further and further towards his wrist, and almost tripping into the angel, pressed entirely against his side. It was like some kind of gentle torture, and Aziraphale wanted it to be over at the same time as he wished it could continue until the end of the world. 

The orange streetlights fragmented in their puddle-reflections; Aziraphale made no move at all to adjust Crowley any further away. 

Eventually they washed up on the step of Aziraphale's shop, Crowley's fingertips resting against the bare skin of Aziraphale's wrist where glove didn't quite meet sleeve. He ought to shrug it off - that was the side with his keys - but he couldn't quite bring himself to make a move. 

"You ever wonder why I drink so much?" Crowley said, his voice low. He moved a little closer, just a twitch, a strangely sinuous movement that Aziraphale couldn't have thwarted if he wanted to. 

"The bad influence of all your new friends, perhaps." 

"Mm," Crowley said, a negative. "It's not for them." 

Another movement, a darting motion of his head, and the gentle cool of his lips was fading from the corner of Aziraphale's mouth before he'd even quite registered it was there.

"Mm," Crowley said, in a different tone entirely. "Mango."


End file.
